Try to Just Keep Moving On
by procrastin8or951
Summary: My response to "Blood Drops." Nick/Warrick friendship. Please review! Oneshot


Nick sits at the far end of the locker room, as far from the door as he can get. He sits on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs.

He lets it all wash over him, the knowledge of everything that happened in that normal-looking home with the normal-looking family. Why is it that things are never how they look?

Kids murdered, parents slaughtered, daughters abused…it just isn't right. It isn't right that those parents would never again smile at their children as they sent them off to school. It isn't right that the daughters are so scarred from what they saw. It isn't right that those boys will never get to play football in their backyard again.

Nick flexes his hand, forms a fist, relishing the pain that throbs though his whole hand as it allows him temporary relief from the pain in his heart.

_Why the hell can't people quit hurting kids?_ He wonders, clenching his teeth, opening his hand again to stare at the purpling knuckles, the slight tremors.

He wishes he didn't have to know about all the hurt kids. He wishes he had chosen a different job, anything that meant he didn't have to see this stuff all the time.

_You love your job. Don't be stupid_, he tells himself. It's true, too. He does love his job. Most aspects of it.

But the kids…God, the kids…

He surges to his feet, whirling about to face the hard stone wall he has been sitting against. Nick slams his fists against it, holding back tears that wobble in his eyes and blur the wall into nothing but a barrier between where he is and where he wants to be.

He draws back his fist and sends it crashing into the wall, feeling the pain but not caring. He does it again, and again and again and again, his vision tinged red as he thinks about all the kids and how he couldn't save them.

He keeps it up for a long time, throwing punch after punch, but only with his right hand, his left still holding him up, using the barrier he is trying to knock down. _How's that for ironic?_ he thinks. The thing he wants to destroy is the thing that is keeping him standing.

A pair of arms wrap around his chest and pull him back, away from his wall. He struggles, but he can't get away; whoever it is must be bigger than him.

Slowly, slowly his breathing goes back to normal, his chest no longer heaving under the person's tight grip. The red is washed from his vision, diluted to pink and then clear like blood down a drain. The only red left is the smear of it on the wall.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" a voice asks roughly as Nick is shoved forward and turned. He finds himself staring into the face of Warrick Brown. "Nick?"

He remembers earlier, at the scene, watching Warrick pour the plaster cast.

_"How's that hand?" Warrick asked nonchalantly. _

_"Hmmm?" Nick makes a questioning sound, too caught up in his thoughts to register the question. _

_"I saw you beating up the door a little while ago. You all right?"_

_"Yeah. It's cool." _

It wasn't though, and it still isn't. Nothing about this case was cool.

He shakes his head at Warrick and turns back to the wall, pulling back his fist to hit it again, but Warrick catches his wrist.

"Stop, now." Nick turns to face the other man, pulling his arm away.

"Just go away," Nick says, his voice not sounding like his own.

"Let me see your hand," Warrick demands, ignoring the order.

"It's cool. Just leave me alone." Nick flops back down on the cold floor, his back against the hated wall.

"Like hell. Let me see." Warrick sits next to him, picks up Nick's hand, staring.

"It's fine," Nick insists, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the rough wall a bit harder than is strictly necessary.

Warrick studies the black and purple bruising, the sticky blood that oozes from the hand and makes everything messier than it already was. "This probably needs stitches."

"It's fine." Nick pulls his hand back, and puts his head on his knees.

"You wanna tell me what's wrong?" Warrick asks softly.

"No."

"Okay."

They sit for a while in silence.

"Why do people hurt kids?" Nick asks suddenly, looking up at Warrick through eyes darkened with sadness.

"I don't know," Warrick says, shaking his head. "I don't know why people do anything."

"It isn't enough," Nick says, looking down at his hand.

"What isn't?"

"Twenty-five to life. It's not enough."

"What do you suggest?" Warrick asks, not really understanding.

"Something worse. Kids are different, man. They have everything to look forward to. The world hasn't screwed them up yet," Nick says, the tears returning to his eyes.

"Has the world ruined you?" Warrick asks, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Yes," Nick says so quietly Warrick almost misses it. "I don't want all those kids to be like me."

"What's wrong with you?"

"Things aren't how they should be," Nick says, ignoring Warrick's question.

"That's what we're here for."

"Yeah?"

"We get justice for the people who can't get it for themselves. It's a little more fair that way," Warrick says, hoping this will be enough.

"Yeah…"

Silence falls over them for a while, both just sitting on the floor of the locker room.

"Nick?"

"Hmmm?"

"You should get that hand looked at."

"It's fine."

"At least let me get you some ice," Warrick insists.

"Fine." Warrick looks surprised that Nick gave in so easily.

"Hurts that bad, huh?" Nick stares at his hand sulkily. "Okay, I'll be right back. Try to clean up some of the blood, okay?" Nick grunts.

Nick finds himself alone, again, sitting on the cold floor. Sighing, he hauls himself to his feet and grabs some paper towels, wets them, and wipes up the blood from his hand and the wall. Then he drops onto the bench next to his locker.

"Hey, Nick," Catherine says easily, striding into the locker room and spinning her combination. He grunts an acknowledgement.

"You all right?" Another grunt. He doesn't feel like talking anymore.

"Nick, you shouldn't let this get to you. You did your job, and you did it well. There was nothing else you could do." He considers this.

"You're right, Cath," he says and smiles, hoping she'll accept that.

"Don't feel guilty about this. Sometimes bad things happen. But I bet you for every kid we see in here, there are another ten out there who can thank you for their safety, because you put this guy behind bars," she says.

He likes this idea. A little ember of hope flares in his chest, the warmth spreading a little. "Thanks," he says, and he means it.

Warrick returns then, handing him a bag full of ice. Nick unclenches his fist and lays the bag on his knuckles, wincing a little at the cold against the ache.

Warrick opens his locker and begins to drop things into it. Nick stays on his bench.

Catherine finally closes her locker. "Night, guys."

"See you, Cath," Nick says.

"Good work." He hears Grissom's voice. Grissom pauses when he sees Nick.

"It'll be back to normal in twenty-four hours," he says. Nick doesn't know if he is talking about his hand or the whole situation. He supposed it didn't matter. He smiled.

"Normal would be nice."


End file.
